White Lies, Black Lies
By Steve Pease
Way before it ever came to this, Margaret and I would curl on the couch. We’d touch glasses (Sancerre for her, Shiraz for me), and we’d touch each other. Then we’d talk about what touched us both in the music we listened to.
Back then, disagreement was rare. So when she enthused about a Tracy Chapman line (something about lies being best when storytelling), I went along with it.
“Great song.” I said. (Truth).
“Profound insight.” I added. (Lie).
Honestly? I don’t think Ms. Chapman thought it through. There may be a place for the little white relationship balm I spread that evening, but most lies are like the aggressive cultures I’ve studied under a thousand microscopes; they rebound and multiply indiscriminately, with no regard for anything in their path.
And they bite. And they wound. Sometimes it’s a scratch that continues to itch long after it should have healed. (People call that guilt). Other times it’s a major trauma. (Name me a war that started from truth).
I guess that most of my early lies would share some common ground with yours.
At five: “It wasn’t me, Mom.”
At ten: “No, Mr. Francis, I didn’t cheat on the math test.”
At fifteen: “Of course I love you, Leah.”
(That may be just a boy one; I never did understand women well enough to know whether they practice the same hormone-driven duplicity).
At twenty: “55 m.p.h., officer.”
Sadly, too, I know that many of you will hear these like the echo of familiar footsteps down your own hallway:
“I still love you.”
“Nothing’s wrong, I’m just tired.”
“I have to work late to finish the project.”
“There’s this conference in San Diego.”
The end result of those was coming home one night to find that both Margaret and the house were cleared out. The end result of those was coming apart a little. As I said, they rebound and they multiply.
And, in turn, having bred, they led to the last five lies I recall. All told to my research supervisor at Endove.
“Yeah, yeah, Ron, everything’s okay at home.”
“Just a couple to unwind after a hard day. I don’t have a problem with it.”
“Yes, I know the environment is controlled and that there’s no danger.”
“No! Why on earth would I work off-program, and make and take a vaccine?”
“Absolutely, I always observe the safety protocols.”
Of course, after the accident, Ron’s not around to reprimand me. Not many people are. Hell of a big bite. Hell of a big wound.
And, I suppose, hell of a big guilt. But if I can find anyone left to lie to, I probably still will.
Steve Pease once had a ‘proper job’, drafting press-releases and briefings for British politicians. He argues, rather convincingly, that this was an ideal apprenticeship in the realms of fantasy. These days, he enjoys an idyllic lifestyle – walking his dogs by the River Derwent in Northern England, as he dreams up ideas for his twin passions of story and song writing.
Steve’s work has appeared in U.K. sci-fi/fantasy magazine ‘The Singularity’, Volumes 1 & 2 of Canadian anthology ’47-16: Short Fiction & Poetry Inspired by David Bowie’, and – in the USA – in Fantasia Divinity’s ‘Distressing Damsels’ anthology. Examples of his musical collaborations can be seen & heard at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1zOS8K6tZQk&feature=youtu.be and https://www.reverbnation.com/thejamesdeangarageband
Paper Butterfly Flash Fiction 